Hubris
by tenzin.kendrick
Summary: Sixteen years after the end of Beyond the Shadows, the doors of hell break open. Chapter 1 takes place one week after Beyond the Shadows.
1. Logan I

Yielding, unbroken.

In his mind, the High King cursed the crowd before him for their complacency. Deceptive complacency, simmering hatred boiling underneath lowered shoulders and bent backs. These were men who had been given complete freedom under fifty generations of Godkings; most important of which was the freedom to own others.

Logan Gyre sighed as he stared over the crowd of Khalidorans. Men who had complete freedom for fifty generations; and in the space of a single day Logan had dethroned their Godking, killed their Meisters and relocated his capitol inside their territory. And now he was breaking their traditions and stealing their freedoms.

But what outraged them more than anything was the man standing next to Logan. Dorian Ursuul, Last Godking of Khalidor, brought in chains to the heart of Khalidoran power, and now forced to swear fealty to a usurper.

Logan remembered the Dorian he had seen at Elenea, leading the Khalidoran forces. A proud man with clear Khalidoran features, wearing his white Cloak of Office, face and skin physically bulging under the Vir. That Dorian was gone, long dead; he had, according to King Solon, ripped the Vir from his own skin and stepped down.

The stranger before Logan wore nothing even considered regal. Gwinvere had seen fit to dress him in Cenarian fashions; according to her, to help convince the Khalidorans that their God had surrendered willingly. And to incite hatred directed at him, to prevent him from ever being able to regain control.

His face was bruised, and one black eye was held shut, though the physicians reassured Logan that it would heal. His 'interrogator' hadn't been kind to him. Normally, Logan would disprove of such harm; normally, his interrogator would have been thrown out on the street for such treatment. For Dorian, however, he would make an exception.

'Dorian Ursuul, do you swear to step down as Godking of Khalidor?'

Logan spoke the words to Dorian, but directed them at the crowd. They had to know their Godking was giving up; it would be what broke them. Sister Ariel should be starting by now.

Dorian went from lying on the ground to standing in a single smooth motion, unhampered by the chains holding his arms and legs together.

'I swear,' Dorian began, and Ariel started to amplify his voice. 'To step down as Godking of Khalidor.' Logan opened his mouth to reply, but Dorian continued. 'Until my people tire of your reign, I will do nothing to oppose you.'

Logan took a moment to interpret the sentence. It was a surrender, but an ambiguous surrender; 'Until my people tire of your reign.' There was a message in there, a threat. He was giving the Khalidorans hope, and speaking directly to Logan. If you kill me, you will have snapped the bowstring.

Logan bit down on his teeth until they began to ache. If he refused the surrender, it would outrage the Khalidorans beneath his rule. If he accepted it, he would be giving in to Dorian. He would be accepting a compromise with a defeated and dethroned lunatic; leave me alone, leave my people unbroken, and you will have peace.

But only one of those would lead to civil war.

'Your surrender is accepted, Dorian Ursuul. Live out your life how you choose; but not in Khalidor.'

Dorian smiled, as though he had expected it. The prophet most likely had; he probably had his entire life mapped out.

'Then I comply with your terms, King Gyre.' King, not High King; and complying. Dorian still thought himself an equal, still a king.

He closed his eyes, and when they re-opened, sparks flared. Logan couldn't avoid closing his eyes; and when he opened them, Dorian stood with hands stretched to the side. His shackes were gone.

The crowd was dismissed. Logan glanced to one Dorian's guards, before assigning another dozen men to watch over him. Dorian had played him, had predicted every word, and knew his every reaction. And had set himself up as an equal. This was unacceptable, intolerable... but he would have to tolerate it.


	2. Kylar I

'Jarl.'

A straw head was separated as the wind parted on the edge of a thin blade.

'Elene.'

Another was split from forehead to jaw, cutting through the neck.

A quiet whisper, more of a hiss, for a child dead before it could be given a name.

Kylar swung Retribution, but there were no more targets within range. A moment later, he hurled himself towards another straw figure, spearing it through the chest, then spinning around to decapitate a fourth. A fourth that was just slightly out of his reach.

_(Unawareness, that swing left you open with nothing to strike at. One day, it will get you killed.)_

Kylar ignored the voice, mentally filtering it out to the same level as the wind on his skin and the grass beneath his boots. For the next five minutes, he would dedicate himself to the dance. No war, no ka'kari, nothing outside this field.

'First kill. Wanted to escape the Sa'kage, couldn't pay the full price.' Retribution seemed to sing as it cut the wind. In battle, it would sing with joy for its purpose. This was a pale mockery made from self pity, and somewhere in Kylar's mind, the song was mocking him.

'Second kill. _Go to hell,_ unfortunate witness.'

A knife caught Retribution mid swing.

Kylar opened his eyes, blinking out the dawn light. The knife holder smiled, before sheathing her weapon.

_(I tried to warn you. Don't filter me out again.)_

'I thought I couldn't get over the past,' she muttered. 'But looking at you, I feel like...'

Vi turned to look at him. There was a time when the sun would perfectly frame her, its rays effortlessly mixing with her hair. When her smile seemed to light fires in dark rooms. Now, since that day in Black Barrow, strands of grey had begun creeping into her hair. Her skin was no longer flawless, her hair no longer that particular shade of flaming red. But one look into those eyes, with their same wild excitement, albeit tempered with wisdom, and Kylar knew; this was the same Vi he had known all those years ago.

'You've... changed,' Kylar said, scrambling for the right word.

'Am I really the first person to say you look the same?' Vi replied.

'Actually, you are.'

'So no one else bothered to look for you here?'

'No one bothered to look at all. Helped keep the peace.'

Vi grasped Kylar's arm; he flinched. It was enough to make her pull away. 'You're being absurd. Keep the peace? Kylar, there are riots and revolutions, rogue lords and bitter kings. If Logan ever needed you, its now.'

'And then the people will start talking. Did Logan order Terah's death? Did Logan come to power through the Sa'kage? Did he ever destroy them, or did he just hide them? If I show my face anywhere in New Cenaria, I'll set a hundred rumors loose before the first day is out.'

'Kylar... you need to come back. Logan needs you; Cenaria needs you. Elenea needs you.'

He looked away. 'Don't say that name. Isn't Alitaera far enough for me to stop hearing her name?'

Vi gripped his shoulder. 'Would Elene want your self pity? I wanted to tell you this the day after Trayethell, but it wasn't time. You were still grieving; I had to give you time. Then you disappeared, and I gave you time. One year, until I decided to look for you. Fifteen years of searching, and I've finally found you.'

Kylar turned towards her again. 'What is it you needed to tell me?'

'Your child is alive, Kylar.'


	3. Lyna I

Chapter 3

Lyna I

_'A cold wind lashed out against the walls of Elenea, slithering into the guardsman's cloak.'_

Slithering? Was that the right word? Lyna crossed it out, trying to consider another. Worming? Breaching? Entering? Wrong mental image, wrong mental image and too simplistic. Finally, Lyna crossed out the entire sentence. This idea was never going to work; she would just have to think of another.

_'A storm threw itself against the walls of Elenea, crawling over...'_ No. Threw against the walls and crawling over the walls brought together different images; they couldn't be used in the same paragraph, never mind the same sentence.

Sighing, Lyna crossed out her thirty seventh sentence that day, before writing down another.

_'The guardsman was the first to notice the brewing storm on the horizon.'_ Would he have been the first, though? Lyna paused for a moment to consider farmers outside the city walls, and discarded yet another sentence.

'Lyna Gyre,' her father's steward began, 'you are summoned at the behest of High King Logan Gyre, and may-'

Lyna tuned out the rest of his sentence, stacking her discarded pages together. Mother never liked her discarding paper, and insisted that it should be kept to remind herself how much she had improved. Each collection of ink stains was vaguely reminiscent of a half decent sentence, but only vaguely.

None of them worth saving. Sighing, Lyna threw them into the hearth, before stepping out the door.

'Lady Lyna,' the steward intoned, 'would it not be wise to make yourself more... presentable?' He scrambled for the right word. Another of father's stewards, each one replaced no more than a week after the last. She hadn't seen this one before; first day on the job?

Lyna glanced to the mirror in the hallway; what was there to make presentable? Sighing, she brushed yellow hair from her forehead to behind her ears, rubbed sleep out of her eyes, flicked a crumb off her shoulder, then turned back to the steward. Completely presentable.

'Lady Lyna,' the steward repeated, and she mentally tuned him out for the second time that day. Clearly a nobleman, with the way he held himself above everyone else; even a _Khalidoran_ princess, as some of Father's enemies labelled her, was beneath the steward. She ran through the different noblemen she knew, but couldn't recognize the steward. A foreigner, then, from outside Elenea, though Lyna lacked a good memory for faces. Vaguely Alitaeran features; definately a foreigner.

She walked past the steward while he was in mid sentence, heading for the Audience Chamber. The steward ran in front of her, determined to lead the way; he wouldn't get the chance. Lyna hurried her pace without sacrificing dignity, keeping a meter ahead of Father's steward. Definately a nobleman, and one who was less than awed by her title, more influenced by Mother's reputation.

She passed her brother on the way to the audience chamber. Prince Regnus, as he liked to call himself, carried himself with dignity, in full armor no less. Sometimes, Lyna thought he slept in his armor; he seemed to think it made him more regal. A crimson cloak with a white outline was draped around his neck, fanning out behind him and stopping an inch from the ground. He seemed to have gotten past his gold phase; she remembered when, just last month, he had visited the Court dressed as a Ladeshian lord, figuratively speaking.

His sharp features morphed into what could be vaguely interpreted as a smile when he glanced at her. Sometimes, her brother seemed to be chiselled from a broken off piece of the castle wall. No, terrible metaphor. She'd have to think of a better way to describe him.

His pale skin didn't help the family reputation. Both the time of the birth, his skin and Mother's last husband had all fuelled the rumors; the Gyre children were Khalidoran. There had always been whispers that Queen Jenine's children weren't Logan's, but no one took them seriously. Until they had seen Regnus; skin pale as fresh snow, face chiselled from marble – a half decent metaphor, she should use that somewhere. The implications of the word marble instead of stone, when applied to Regnus...

At least Lyna looked Cenarian. But she could have looked identical to any Cenarian queen one could care to mention, and it wouldn't have made a difference. Regnus's reputation, Mother's reputation, both were also her reputation. The whispers would never stop at claiming Regnus was Khalidoran. Why stop halfway, when Father's enemies had a weapon that could apply to the entire family?

Regnus took a different turn, probably towards the barracks. Lyna, on the other hand, kept walking ahead; another several turns, and she arrived at the audience chamber.

The steward gave up his last ounce of dignity, leaping in front of Lyna to open the door. She tried to hide her satisfaction, and succeeded. He stepped to the side, gesturing for her to enter. A small victory for him; she had no choice but to enter, and now he was acting like he was giving her permission. Lyna brushed past him, barely giving him a glance, all the better if it soured his victory.

The Audience Chamber had been modelled after Sethi ships, and not just in shape. Father occupied an entire half of the room, raised above the rest to force others to look up to see him. It was designed for a one sided echo; anything from Father would be heard from the far end of the chamber, nearly a hundred meters away. Conversely, Father himself would only be able to hear those standing near him; and they wouldn't be echoed.

It was all too formal for Lyna's tastes, but she understood the design and choices behind it. No matter who he was addressing, or how large a crowd, Father would always retain control in this room.

His face betrayed an informality when he saw her, though it was quickly replaced by his usual stone mask when in this particular room. It was then that Lyna noticed the men at the front row; Khalidoran noblemen. Three pronged beards, pale skin and wearing the latest Khalidoran fashions, in this case white suits embroidered with rubies.

One of them was speaking, his voice echoing through the room.

'With all due respect, you cannot simply reject it; every nobleman in Khalidor is behind us.'

Father kept his voice firm in his response.

'And every nobleman outside of Khalidor is behind me. If you wish to retain your lands and titles, you will dismiss yourselves from Elenea. I expect to hear word that you have returned to Khaliras within the week.'

The noblemen fanned out, some of them glancing towards her. None of them paid any real attention; Lyna never liked to dress as a royal. They probably took her for a commoner, or a minor noble.

Father's expression softened as Lyna stood in the front row.

'More nobles for self determination?' Lyna guessed.

Father nodded. 'Apparently, with the entirity of Khalidor behind them. And Lodricar, apparently; something I'll believe when Emperor Alkestes appears in the flesh to side with them.'

'Why would Lodricar side with them?'

'Probably haven't; go to a country you've enslaved for the better part of a millenium, and tell them to willingly back you.'

'Was there a reason you called me?' Lyna asked.

'Yes, actually. There's a nobleman in Khalidor, one of Godking Garoth's surviving children. He's pressing for self determination, but couldn't come here himself. And the country is rallying behind him.'

'Draef Ursuul?' Lyna guessed.

'Yes. And I need someone to go to Khalidor, then turn the country against him.'

'And you want me to go?'

Father sighed. 'Lyna, this isn't something I would ask lightly. I know how much you hate Khalidor' – Lyna opened her mouth to interrupt, then closed it again- 'but there's no one else to do it. My best diplomats are trying to hold the Alitaeran peace and stamp out the Stranger cults; anyone else's station would be too low, an insult to send to an issue this large. Your brother, while liked by the Khalidorans, doesn't grasp the concepts behind politics. And me... I can't just abdicate my throne for a month to go to Khalidor.'

Lyna replied. 'A month? Only a month?'

Father nodded. 'Just a month. And its just a choice; I'm not forcing your hand.'

She was silent for a few minutes, considering the request. A month in Khalidor? Despite what Father thought, she didn't hate Khalidor – she only hated the reputation it bestowed on her family. Mother, formerly married to the last Godking, put suspicion of a Khalidoran heritage on her and Regnus. That was what she hated; and if anything, this visit would fuel those rumors.

Finally, Lyna nodded. 'One month? All right, I'll go to Khalidor.'


	4. Regnus I

Chapter 4

Regnus I

Blade to blade, boot to shield. It was the exact same maneuver his trainer had used the last time they had sparred, and this time Regnus was prepared, dropping his shield and spinning his sword, stepping around his opponent, and cutting an arc towards his foe's shoulders.

Master Tulii regained his foothold and ducked beneath the sword, before planting a hand on the ground and swinging his foot behind Regnus's shins. Half a second later, Regnus was on the ground, his opponent planting a knee into his back, another holding down Regnus's sword arm.

'Yield.'

Regnus tried to spin around, but failed. He put all his weight on his arms and tried to throw off the weight on his back, but failed. He flicked his neck backwards in an attempt to slam the back of his head into Master Tulii; a hand grasped him by the hair and slammed his face into the grass.

'Yield.'

Regnus tried to pass his blade from his sword hand, pinned under Master Tulii's knee, to his remaining arm, pinned under his own weight. His opponent scooped it up before he could grab it.

'Yield.'

Regnus sighed with resignation, feeling small bursts of pain from his nose; the blood dripping down made his pale skin shudder. Still, not broken.

'I yield.'

Master Tulii rose to his feet, before grasping Regnus's arm and pulling him up. Regnus glanced for a moment at his trainer, past the pockparks and dark Ladeshian skin. There was no real satisfaction in those eyes, just a weary resignation of another easy victory. This wasn't even a challenge for the old swordsman, just another chore to get through the day.

Regnus moved a sleeve over his nose to wipe away the blood. His servants would panic at the stain, but this was his sparring uniform, of no consequence. Still, there was something he had meant to ask the previous day, when Master Tulii had first kicked at his shield.

'You cheated,' Regnus growled, wiping away more blood from his upper lip.

Master Tulii smirked. 'You won't win a fight following every rule. You won't win a war following every rule. The only way for you to win is to both use every opportunity and anticipate your opponent. Kicking in a duel, for you, is unthinkable; you can't imagine anyone else doing it.'

Regnus nodded. 'I understand.' He understood, but he didn't approve.

This was only the end of his first week with his new trainer, and only the fifth of such arguments. Regnus had learned long ago not to argue with Master Tulii; it had as much effect as arguing with the tides. Whatever you said, nothing would change.

Master Tulii took out a piece of cloth from his pocket and ran it along his sword, wiping away the few drops of blood on the edge. Sparring with real weapons still made Regnus nervous, but his opponent had promised not to deliberately cripple or kill him. Deliberately.

Regnus had initially been worried about accidentally killing his trainer. Those worries had been replaced by frustration at the end of the first day, when he had been struck three times with the hilt of Master Tulii's sword in the first round. It would be nigh impossible for him to even get a single successful blow; the best Regnus could hope for was to last long enough to learn something.

'You lasted longer today,' Master Tulii said to him as they walked out.

'Nine seconds. I think I might have lasted longer against Garuwashi.' Regnus tried to force a smile, but defeat still left a sour taste in his mouth, as it had every day for the last week.

'You'd last a single second, the time it would take him to unsheathe his sword and take the first swing. And he's not even Talented.'

'And you are?'

'Took you long enough to find out; and let me guess, that was cheating?' Tulii replied.

'I'm used to it,' Regnus said.

'If it helps, I didn't use any Talent strength, and just enough Talent speed to keep up with you. After all, at my age, I'd need some outside advantage to keep up.' Regnus didn't take the bait. Master Tulii was trying to pull him into sympathy for his age; it wouldn't work. You can't exactly sympathise with someone when they slam your head into the grass.

The thought reminded him of the injury. The pain wasn't too bad, and his nose wasn't broken, but there was a small trail of blood leaking out. He raised a sleeve to his nose and wiped the blood away a second time. He'd have to see one of the Chantry Sisters about his cuts and bruises later.

Master Tulii changed the conversation. 'I heard your sister is going to Khalidor.'

Regnus winced. 'Yes, my sister, given the most important task of all, while I'm left to do nothing but get beaten over the head every day.' He glanced down at his pale skin; Khalidorian skin. Raven black Khalidorian hair. Sharp Khalidorian features. If he wore the right uniform, no one would assume him to be a Gyre.

But was he a Gyre? There were always rumors about the parentage of the Gyre children. His sister was naive if she didn't even consider them, but Regnus had always considered himself to be logical. Yes, he reasoned, he was Khalidorian.

And for simply looking Khalidorian, he had never been given any task of any real importance. Father couldn't see past the skin; whenever he looked at Regnus, it was clear to both of them what he saw. Not another Logan Gyre, another Dorian Ursuul.

Master Tulii seemed to realize it was a sensitive subject. 'There's a visiting Chantry Sister in the Ambassador's Wing. She might be able to deal with those cuts.'

Regnus thanked him and went on his way, resentment brewing beneath a calm expression. It was nearing the end of his patience; ignore me, Father, but do not give my sister more attention just because she looks Cenarian.

Still, what could he do about it? No, Regnus had asked himself that question too many times. There were a thousand things he could do about it. But one of them stood out in his mind; he wouldn't let his sister go alone and be left here with nothing of importance to do.

He turned around, leaving the Ambassador's Wing behind, heading for his quarters. He had an hour to pack before Lyna's caravan left.


End file.
